Alone IN the Water
by The Lady Of Purpletown
Summary: Sherlock, John, swimming pool, no swimming. Based on what I dreamed after seeing the teaser image for series 4 that was released last night. Apparently, my brain wanted to give me a nice explanation for all the water.


John looked completely relaxed. His head was resting against the edge of the shallow swimming pool, his hands floating at his sides. The upper side of his chest was enticingly visible above the water.

Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't stop fidgeting. He was sat on the opposite side of the pool, balancing with his legs stretched out in front of him because really, those benches were made for dwarves. How could anyone get comfortable in here if they actually had _legs_? He couldn't rest his head, either; not if he ever wanted to hold it upright again without excruciating pain. So he was stuck here looking at a man he found far more attractive than he should.

He wished he could at least say that it had seemed a good idea at first. It hadn't. But he had been so _bored_ , and when John finally came up with a suggestion that hadn't been completely inane he'd been so relieved he'd said yes, because there was nothing else to _do_.

Only, it turned out, this wasn't the kind of pool in which you were supposed to do anything. Trying to swim had almost cost him a broken toe because, as opposed to what he had expected, the water did not get deeper towards the far end. So he'd followed John's example and sat still, trying not to shout out his frustration at being in the same tedious position as before, only _wet_.

Of course _John_ could relax here. John who spent hours in a bath without even bringing something to read. How Sherlock envied his placid brain...

But John's brain still wasn't the part he was most focused on. He shifted again, sending enough ripples through the water that John looked up.

"Seriously, Sherlock. Just _try_ to enjoy it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, ready to throw a scathing reply – but having John's attention, he suddenly had an idea. John was right. This was a situation in which they did not find themselves every day. He could take advantage of this. He could pick up his old experiment concerning states of undress in close proximity.

So he pushed himself up and pulled his shoulders back, showing off more of his chest as he let his gaze meet John's. "I am," he answered.

"Right. That's why you look ready to flee any minute now." John was still unimpressed – but then his gaze slid down. And stayed on Sherlock's chest while he licked his lips. Was that... a reaction?

Deciding to push it, Sherlock tilted his head back, offering his neck – even though there was even less chance of getting comfortable like that when he was sitting up. "Do I?" he asked, deepening his voice and assuming a languid tone.

It would have been a shame that he couldn't see John's reaction to this position – if the way John's breathing sped up hadn't been so _loud_. The empty walls echoed it around, making it impossible for Sherlock to believe that this was just his imagination.

Every other time he had done this experiment, he _had_ believed it.

That time, years ago, when he had just barged into the bathroom, John had _definitely_ been far too annoyed to take a moment to check him out. He'd just been trying to tamper down his anger, or trying to find the words with which to make it perfectly clear that Sherlock would _not_ be doing this ever again.

The time when they'd been sharing a hotel room, John had only muttered 'Jesus' and hidden in the bathroom, which Sherlock had to admit was a flaw in his otherwise perfect plan of 'not being childish' about getting changed.

In Buckingham Palace... Well, that hadn't been so much of a plan. His brother just decided to make it happen and Sherlock could hardly turn around to study John's reactions. Besides, he was pretty sure that there were too many distractions in that environment to get a good reading.

He hadn't really bothered with it again after that. It became pretty difficult, anyway, being away for two years and coming home to John having moved out of their flat. It would have been a lot less inconspicuous if he started undressing while John was only _visiting_ , and Sherlock would only be disappointed at the lack of response anyway.

Except that, now that they were in a situation where it was socially acceptable to be almost naked, John displayed physical signs of... interest?

Sherlock slowly lifted his head again, disguising his searching look under hooded eyelids. Even in the blue shimmer above the swimming pool – or, perhaps, accentuated by it – John's face was visibly flushed.

That was... interesting. Pleasing. And confusing, because now what? He'd never thought his experiment this far through.

He realised he'd widened his eyes, ruining his seductive look completely. And yet it appeared to be more effective, because John rose from his seat (droplets rolling down his nipples to his stomach, fingertips touching the water surface like a tender lover) and waded over to him.

"John?" Sherlock inquired. It appeared his voice had fled while it still could.

He tried to follow it, to get away, but John was right there already, so Sherlock couldn't get up without touching him, and that wouldn't help at all. He froze in place as John put his hands on the edge on both sides of Sherlock's shoulders, staring down at him.

"Still bored?"

"No..." That most definitely was _not_ a squeak.

"What are we doing, Sherlock?" John wore that challenging half-smile that always made Sherlock question if he should feel scared or fond. On this occasion, he favoured scared.

He swallowed before he said: "Relaxing, John. It was your idea. But if _you_ 're starting to question this too, I suggest we leave and find a case."

"No," John said. "I know you like dancing, Sherlock, but we've danced around this long enough."

"What... I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sherlock's heart rate was reaching dangerous heights as John simply raised his eyebrows.

"Look, John..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "For someone who's always very worried that people will talk, you are... very much in my lap."

"No. We're not doing this again." John shook his head. "You're not going to tell me you're married to your work."

"Perhaps not. I'll tell you that you are –"

"Sherlock." The way John was fixing him down, Sherlock could see galaxies in his dark blue eyes. "It's fine. Just. This. It's fine. We can go there."

"But..."

John's lips were on his and really, it would be silly to focus on ending his sentence when he was experiencing _that_. And even when they broke apart, he refused to think of anything but the way John kissed along his jaw to his neck, making him shiver in spite of the water's temperature.

After all these years, he hadn't really believed it would happen anymore. It felt like a dream. But dreams didn't have the smell of chlorine, the water splashing over the edges, the weight of another body. And he should have known, really. Coming here had been John's idea, after all. He was _always_ right. Only, this time, it wasn't boring at all.


End file.
